When Samuel raised his brows and cocked his head toward the reticule, Willie slowly held it out to Miss Ophelia, his narrow gaze fastening again on Absalom.
“Willie,” Clarissa said, laying her hand on his shoulder and praying for wisdom in her words and tact in her tone, “I think my grandmother would rather you call her Missus Adams. Not Miss Phemie.”
“Oh, let it go.” With a little wave, Grandmother dismissed Clarissa’s concern, dispensing with a hundred years’ tradition with four words. “I’ve always hated nicknames, and that one in particular, but it sounds rather charming when Willie says it. Reverend, you may as well call me Miss Phemie, too, when we are home, and I will call you Samuel. All this ‘Missus’ and ‘Reverend’ stuff has become tiring.”
Clarissa opened her mouth to speak but had no idea how to respond. What odd change of heart, of habit, was this? No one in Natchez would believe this transformation. Clarissa closed her mouth and glanced out the window, half expecting the sun to fall from the sky with this new order of things.
“Who is this little hooligan? What’s he doing in my house?” Absalom rose to his feet, no sign of a knee injury now, and pointed to the door. “Get back to the dirt farm you came from, boy.”
“You can’t boss me around. I’m the assistant to the chaplain, who is also the aide-de-camp.” Willie puffed out his chest as if he had gold Confederate stars on his collar. “I outrank you.”
As Absalom took a menacing step toward the boy, Samuel moved between them. “Don’t get too close, Adams. Willie’s pretty good with a sword.”
Absalom circled around them and made for the hall, his steps quick for a man with a bum knee.
“And it’s not your house,” Grandmother screeched to Absalom’s retreating back.
Grandmother—shouting? Until today, Clarissa had never in her life heard anyone, let alone her proper Natchez grandmother, yell inside this home. What renegade influence was Absalom having on them all? And as long as he was here, how could Clarissa ever hope to bring back the peace and order they’d once cherished at Camellia Pointe?
“I love to get in the last word with him.” Grandmother lowered her voice and grinned like a schoolgirl as soon as they heard the squeaking of the dining room threshold board. She turned to Samuel. “What did Willie mean about outranking Absalom?”
“The men made him an honorary lieutenant. They pretty much did what he said.”
Grandmother Euphemia cocked her head and glanced sideways at the boy, the corners of her mouth twitching. “Absalom says he was a major. So he outranks you, child.”
“He never acted like no officer, so I thought he was a private.” Willie turned those bright blue eyes on Grandmother, drawing a smile from her. “Even if I’d known he was a major, I wouldn’t have let him insult you, Miss Phemie.”
For the space of a moment, Grandmother’s expression softened. Then she drew her brows together in a frown and rapped her cane on the parlor floor. “Samuel, you ought to make sure my grandson doesn’t gobble up the entire breakfast Ophelia brought us. And don’t let him tear up anything. If he doesn’t respect the Duncan Phyfe pieces in there any more than he does my Hepplewhite, we’ll soon have nothing left to sit on.”
“I’m on my way.” However, Samuel hesitated and set his gaze on Willie, as if silently imploring him to curtail any further outlandish behavior.
With Samuel out of the room, Willie moved in closer to Grandmother and finally sat next to her on the parlor sofa. Bless the child. He’d help to counteract the damage before Grandmother could get a chance to buy a steamer ticket and flee this house that was becoming more disorderly by the minute.
Clarissa fidgeted with the amethyst in her pendant, its facets cool against her fingers.
“Come over here and sit down, Clarissa,” Grandmother said in her “take charge” voice. “That man has you as jittery as a June bug.”
Clarissa hastened to the sofa and perched on the hassock, her skirts flowing at her grandmother’s feet.
“Ophelia, you may think I’m an old fool, and you’re probably right. But I’ve decided to stay at Camellia Pointe for a while, so I can tell Absalom ‘I told you so’ when this is over.”
She wasn’t going to leave? Clarissa bounded up from the hassock and hugged her, breathing in the familiar scent of her lavender soap. “I’m so glad. I need you here—”
Grandmother reached up and took a firm hold of Clarissa’s arms, unwrapping them from around her neck. “You weren’t listening. I said I would stay for a while. If Absalom makes things unbearable, I’m heading straight to Memphis. Don’t forget that.”
Clarissa settled back onto the stool. Of course Grandmother wouldn’t commit to staying at Camellia Pointe the entire year. Was it possible that she valued her freedom from Absalom even more than she valued her home?
A sound erupted from the other side of the house, a sound like a fist hitting an antique mahogany dining table. Then Absalom’s boisterous voice rang out with a string of foul words Clarissa wished Willie hadn’t heard.
Yes, freedom from Absalom could be more desirable than a country villa.
“Ophelia, go in there and try to reason with that man,” Grandmother said. “Tell him there are ladies and a child in this house who don’t want to hear his riverboat-gambler language. You always were the only one who could talk any sense into him.”
“That didn’t happen often, but I’ll try.” Miss Ophelia gave Willie’s arm a squeeze as she passed him on her way to the dining room.
When she had gone, Grandmother fixed her hazel gaze of steel on Willie and pointed her gnarled finger at him. “Within the last twenty-four hours, Camellia Pointe has undergone the invasion of my insufferable grandson, his wife and stepson, and a new husband and stepdaughter for Clarissa. I had no control over any of it. But this is my home. And from this moment on, I will decide who does and doesn’t live here.
“Now, as for you, young man...”
Willie gazed at her, wide-eyed, with the innocence of a cherub. “I want to live with you, Miss Phemie, so I can protect you and Miss Clarissa.”
Clarissa leaned closer to her grandmother and breathed a silent prayer, recalling the older woman’s immunity to Clarissa’s own childhood pleadings. No amount of charm had ever swayed Grandmother from what she’d thought was right.
But if she had softened earlier, she all but melted at the boy’s feet now. For about two seconds. Then she pressed her lips together for a moment, narrowing her eyes at him. “You’re as courageous as Clarissa’s father was at your age—and as cheeky. But yes, I’ll feel safe with you in the house.”
As a grin emerged on Willie’s face, Grandmother patted his knee. “You may stay at Camellia Pointe.”
Her new protector let out a whoop and dashed into the hall. “I’ll help Papa Samuel keep an eye on ol’ Absalom.”
When his clomping footsteps died away, the parlor felt as empty and cheerless as cold ashes on a winter night. “Willie has a way of brightening the room, doesn’t he, Grandmother? Surely you can see it.”
Grandmother rose from the sofa and made for the hall, her cane-tapping a little softer than usual. “I see only that he’s the enemy of my enemy, and that makes Willie my friend.”
How had Camellia Pointe come to house so many enemies—first Yankee soldiers and now Absalom?
The Yankees had left of their own accord, but Absalom? Never. He’d proved that by refusing her offer of a compromise.
No, the only way to get free of her cousin was to fight. But who would suffer? She got up and paced to the doorway in time to catch sight of Grandmother leading Willie up the stairs, presumably to make him presentable for church. Did Clarissa have what it would take to hold together her family—both natural and newfound—at Camellia Pointe for a year? Could she defeat Absalom, outwit him? Outwork him?
Grandmother must have heard her in the hall, b
ecause she turned and peered down at her from the top step. “Willie can’t go to church in these rags. Come help me get him some clothing that looks respectable, even if his tongue isn’t.”
Clarissa hastened up the stairs, spotting the apprehension in her grandmother’s eyes and the trust in Willie’s. If she couldn’t beat her cousin in this contest, how much more would she lose than just a home?
* * *
At ten minutes of eleven, Samuel set the matter of Willie and Miss Phemie—he wasn’t sure he’d ever get used to calling her that—from his mind.
What would happen at his first service at Christ Church of Natchez? If attendance dropped with his arrival, the deaconate might boot him out.
And if people came just to see the Fighting Chaplain, as many had during Samuel’s evangelism circuit days, might the deacons take offense to that, as well?
Either way, he’d certainly need the hand of the Lord on the service today.
He’d never appreciated the custom of the pastor making a grand entrance into the sanctuary as if he were some celebrated singer or play actor. So, in keeping with his habit, he left his study early, climbed the seven steps to the pulpit and surveyed his new congregation.
Every single one of them was there, so it seemed.
Scanning the rows, Samuel couldn’t see a box pew without at least one person in it, and they hadn’t yet stopped coming in. But in Miss Phemie’s first letter to him months ago, she’d said the war had caused the attendance to dwindle to around two hundred and membership to three hundred.
Well, Grandfather Jonah always said it was easier to preach to a full house than a half-full one, and Samuel learned long ago how true that was. And perhaps the drastic increase in attendance would give him a little favor with Deacon Bradley—
Interrupting his thoughts, Miss Phemie, with Emma at her side, strolled down the aisle on the arm of a slicked-down, dressed-up boy.
It couldn’t be Willie.
Samuel held in a laugh. Somehow, the women of his new household had apparently trimmed the boy’s unruly hair and cleaned him up, dressed him in trousers, shirt and morning coat.
How had they accomplished such a feat in two hours?
Willie tipped his battered but cleaned cap to each lady he passed in the aisle, drawing twitters from the women and a tap of reprimand on the shoulder from Miss Phemie. Then she sat him and Emma in the front pew and headed toward the stairs to the second-story gallery and the choir. Samuel turned his back for a moment until he could control his smile. At least they’d arrived early so the fuss would die down before the service.
A quick clatter of light footsteps drew Samuel’s attention to the gallery. Clarissa hastened toward the assembled choir near the front, her white, lacy dress and fern-green hat brightening the morning.
Following her, a blond woman perhaps ten years older handed a baby to an elderly woman near the choir and then took her place next to Clarissa in the soprano section.
As he’d instructed in his last letter to Miss Phemie, Clarissa started the choir anthem at eleven o’clock sharp. Ah, the new hymn “Jesus Paid It All.” Excellent choice. Samuel stepped back from the pulpit and stood just in front of the trompe l’oeil “niche” there, soaking in the harmonies and lyrics. Slower and sweeter than he’d heard it before, the song sounded nearly perfect.
At the beginning of the fourth verse, Clarissa took the solo. Authentic, rich—smooth; her voice seemed timeless and left him breathless. The kind of voice that came around once in a lifetime. As she sang, her face glowed with the truth of her lyrics. Lyrics she meant; lyrics she lived.
This was his wife? Dear God, what treasure have You given me?
When she sang of Jesus’s power melting the heart of stone, the mood shifted as if a soothing wind had begun to blow through the sanctuary. The sound of a deep sigh or the catch of a breath wafted up to him from a front pew. Surveying the crowd, Samuel discovered the source of the sound in Deacon Bradley’s box. The skeletal man held a snowy handkerchief under his nose, tears raining down his sunken cheeks.
Was Samuel seeing right?
Looking around, he saw similar responses throughout the sanctuary, felt an inner warmth himself. The tenderness of Clarissa’s heart seemed to flow from her sweet voice, assuring them all of God’s love and desire to soften their hardened hearts.
When the song was over, Samuel feared to move, to break the moment. When he sensed the time was right, he began his sermon with greater freedom than ever before.
To his surprise, the congregation’s response far surpassed any he’d seen on the circuit. If he’d thought he’d traded an exciting traveling ministry for a sedate pastorate, he’d been wrong.
When he concluded the service, Deacon Bradley rushed to the front, nearly climbing the pulpit steps in his enthusiasm. “I’ve never seen anything like the combination of Missus Montgomery’s song and your preaching. The Reverend Adams used to talk about the music paving the way for the Word, but this is the first time I’ve seen it happen.”
Music paving the way? Samuel had never heard anyone except Grandfather Jonas say that. Had the Lord planned this for him all along?
Or would the novelty of the Fighting Chaplain wear off in a few weeks and leave them with a smaller congregation than before he’d come?
He’d often thought ministry would be easier without the fame, without the expectations. Now he was sure of it.
Chapter Seven
Late that afternoon as Samuel roused himself from his Sunday afternoon nap in the now-chilly upper gallery rocker, his first waking thought centered on Clarissa and her stunning choir anthem. He’d done nothing to deserve the blessing she was to him already. But why had God chosen him for this woman who’d begun to graft herself into his heart?
He shook away the thought. He’d promised to meet Clarissa, and the shadows had already started to fall in the gardens. But first he needed to retrieve his Bible and his ministry ledger so he could record the details of the morning service. Now if he could only remember where he’d left them and his eyeglasses.
Samuel trotted down the outdoor stairs to the ground-floor gallery then let himself inside to search the lower level. Having no success, he climbed the stairs and unlocked the second-floor suite he shared with Clarissa. Or rather, his room within the suite. Inside, he pocketed the key. When Miss Phemie had given it to him and insisted he use it, he’d thought a lock on the suite was foolish. After getting to know Absalom Adams, though, he saw her wisdom.
He cast his gaze about the room and spied a small, clear vase of white camellias on the bedside table. He picked up the little vase and sniffed the sweet scent. Clarissa had thought of him this morning and left the flowers for him to find. The idea of a woman giving him this kind of attention—he hardly knew what to make of it.
Returning the vase to its place and his thoughts to the need at hand, he made a quick search, to no avail. He sat for a moment on the edge of the narrow daybed. It seemed almost as if someone had purposely furnished it for a bachelor—or a husband who was no husband at all.
His gaze fell upon the large trunk, the one he always kept locked, and his mood plummeted. Why had he even brought it here? He reached into his pocket, pulled out the key to that offensive box and tucked the unpolished key onto the highest shelf of the wardrobe. He’d not need anything that trunk held as long as he lived in this house. In fact, if not for sentiment, he’d throw it and all it contained into the depths of the Mississippi River. He’d be happier if he never saw the contents again.
Light footsteps in the hall broke into his melancholy and reminded Samuel of his responsibilities here. As well as his blessings. Emma was with him, he had a new pastorate, and his wife would be a help in the ministry. If she didn’t kill him with her coffee first. He’d not fail to remember the good gifts God had given him.
The footfalls drew nearer and stopped at his door, th
en came a soft knock.
“Samuel?”
Clarissa’s tentative, halting voice made him bound to the door. He flung it open to find her still in her pretty white Sunday dress and holding his black Bible, ledger and eyeglasses.
“I found these on the front gallery and thought you might want them.”
Of course. He’d set them on a wicker chair when he’d arrived from church, meaning to come back for them. He held up the Bible. “I’ll need this if I’m to continue to fight with your cousin. The sword of the Word, you know.”
Clarissa had the grace to smile at his lame joke. “Have you noticed how nervous Absalom gets when anyone mentions swords?”
He hadn’t, but now that he thought of it, it did seem true. “Perhaps it has something to do with his war experience.”
“I have no idea, but if you hang your Fighting Chaplain sword over the doorway, do you think he’d move out?”
Her wicked grin made him laugh, his gloom somehow lifting. How had that happened so quickly? “Unfortunately not.”
“Then let’s take a walk through the gardens and grounds and discuss our options for repairs. I want to fulfill the second term of the will before Absalom does.”
Samuel laid his Bible on the trunk and glanced around, memorizing the locations of his belongings, just in case. Then he locked and double-checked the door. “Thank you for the flowers.”
“They’re off the bush I cut my bridal camellias from. I wanted your room to feel cheery.”
Funny how the little blooms had done just that, at least until he’d started to feel sorry for himself.
“Let’s take Willie and Emma along, if we can find them. Willie is probably outside somewhere. And my daughter is enamored with Camellia Pointe and would enjoy a guided tour.”
Clarissa’s smile budded again at the mention of Emma’s name, and it warmed his heart. “I haven’t seen her since dinner.”
“She told me she planned to find a secluded, quiet spot and read her book.”
An Inconvenient Marriage Page 11